Comfortable

11-7-11

Fiction-y description thing, definitely based on fact.
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She stretched out on one of the padded benches, her dress shoes off and set neatly on the tile floor (For who would think of putting their shoes up on the furniture?), and flipped over onto her stomach.

She was tired--tired of traveling, of striving, of playing, of dealing with people.  A nap was definitely deserved after that had been accomplished. A nap was definitely needed, if she were to keep dealing kindly with people.

The silence in the room was deep, like the ocean. One could stand at the bottom and look up and feel satisfied.

The silence in the room was warm, like cats asleep on one's lap, or when, upon waking, one doesn't want to stir out from under the blankets.

The silence in the room was comfortable, like the couches at her camp directors' homes, or the silence between friends when nothing more needs to be said.

The silence is what made the room feel like home. Made it feel safe to sleep in, even if other people thought that it was utter irreverence to sleep there. Homes weren't meant to be austere and forbidding. Oh, sure, she'd walk softly there, and be reverent there, but it was good to be comfortable in such a place.

She yawned and closed her eyes.

Light splashed into the room from the windows--blues and yellows danced across the benches as the hour passed--and when she woke, she felt rested and ready to keep going.
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